Parshat Beshalach – As broadcoast on Chai FM

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At the beginning of this week’s parsha, Beshalach, we find one of the most bitter, cynical complaints in history. The parsha begins with the Jewish people leaving Egypt. They get to the edge of the Red Sea and by this stage Pharaoh regrets having begged them to leave after the tenth plague, and he and his army are in hot pursuit to bring them back to Egypt. On the one side they see Pharaoh approaching them and on the other side they see the Red Sea. They are caught, literally, between the devil and the deep blue sea. Their reaction is cynical: hamibli ain kevarim beMitzraim lekachtanu lamut bamidbar, “were there were no graves in Egypt you have brought us to die in the desert?”

Complaining is a natural human reaction to problems. They are stuck and frightened, Pharaoh is on the one side, the sea is on the other side and they don’t know how it’s going to end. They see no way out. Yet after everything they have seen – the ten plagues and all the miracles – it’s surprising that they would say something so cynical to Moses. Indeed, this was a terrible, bitter and cynical complaint on their part.

The Torah is a book of truth and implementable ideals

The fact that the Torah records this complaint shows that it’s a book of truth; it’s not a legend or fairytale, but a recounting of the historical events which took place. If we were writing a happily-ever-after fairytale, we would describe the ten plagues, how the Jews came out victoriously, happy and confident; how they came to the Red Sea, how they had faith in G-d and how the sea split. But the Torah is not a fairytale, and so it records even this bitter cynicism because that is what actually happened. Throughout the Torah we find records of our great ancestors’ sins in full detail, because the Torah is a book of truth, not fables.

The Torah is also a book about living with ideals in the real world, with all its difficulties. On the one hand, the Torah is about G-d’s vision for us – the ideals, mitzvos, principles and values with which we are meant to live; on the other hand, we are real people, flesh and blood, and we make mistakes. The challenge is to translate G-d’s lofty ideals into the reality of our lives. This is why Torah law is called Halacha, which comes from the Hebrew word lalechet, “to walk.” It’s about taking those ideals and walking through life with them, making them a part of our life – literally “walking the talk.” G-d gave the Torah so that it will be implemented, and that is why all the “messy” details – the failures and sins of the people – are recorded. These are testimony to the fact that G-d gave us the Torah fully aware of our frailties, vulnerabilities and shortcomings. Despite our human limitations, He gave us the Torah because we are capable of living up to the ideals that He has given us.

Leading an ideal life in a less-than-ideal world

The parsha records that when they left Egypt, Moses took the bones of Joseph with him. They carried Joseph’s coffin throughout their forty-year journey in the desert and buried him once they got to the Land of Israel. When Yaakov died, he had left instructions to be buried in Israel and so when he died his body was moved immediately from Egypt to Israel. Yosef’s instructions were a bit different: he said pakod yifkod etchem, “G-d will remember you,” and when you are eventually redeemed, take me with you and bury me in the Land of Israel. He didn’t ask to be buried immediately in Israel, only when they left Egypt.

The Midrash says that as they travelled in the desert, two things walked in front of them: the Holy Ark which contained the Tablets on which the Ten Commandments were engraved, and Yosef’s coffin. It seems strange to have a coffin alongside the Holy Ark. But the Midrash explains that the reason for this was because Yosef had fulfilled the whole Torah, and so his coffin went alongside the Ark which contained the Tablets. The two went together – the Holy Ark, representing the ideal, and Yosef’s coffin, because Yosef exemplified how the ideal can be practiced and lived by in the real world.

Sometimes we wonder, can it really be done? We think, maybe it can be done in a perfect, ideal world but not in the imperfect world in which we live. But Yosef reminds us that it is indeed possible. Yosef lived in the real, imperfect and difficult world. He was sold at the age of 17; he had to find his way in the house of Potifar, overcome the temptation of committing adultery with Potifar’s wife and overcome the struggles of being in an Egyptian dungeon. And then, possibly his greatest test was that he went from the dungeon to becoming the viceroy, the second-in-command, of all of Egypt. He then had all the power, fame and fortune and yet he still remained loyal to the values of his father’s house. He lived under extremely challenging circumstances and proved that living with ideals in a less-than-ideal world is possible.

Rav Zalman Sorotzkin, in his commentary Oznayim LaTorah, discusses how the two aronot – the Ark and the coffin – went next to each other, to show the people that Torah is doable. They mustn’t think it is something for the heavens and that it cannot be achieved here on earth. Yosef is the proof of that and that is why his coffin goes in front of the people, next to the Ark: to inspire the people and show them that it is possible to live the ideals of Torah, whatever the circumstances.

Living with faith through all circumstances

But there could be another reason, another message, behind why Yosef’s coffin had to accompany them. The people in the desert were not just struggling with keeping the mitzvos. They were struggling with faith in G-d. Already when they left Egypt their faith was tested. They saw the Egyptians on the one side, the sea on the other and they thought, where is G-d? He has abandoned us. Their complaining and cynicism reflected a crisis of faith. The message behind why Yosef’s coffin had to accompany the people is that Yosef exemplified trust and faith in G-d even under difficult circumstances. It’s one thing to have faith and trust in G-d when things are going well; it’s another thing entirely when things are difficult. When you are seventeen years old and your own brothers turn against you and sell you into slavery and you land up in a foreign land where you can’t speak the language, and then just when you think things are going well you end up in a dungeon – we can only imagine how difficult it must have been for him.  And yet he pulled through, with his faith intact.

Our faith is often tested in challenging times. Part of our faith is to believe that G-d is in control and that whatever happens, gam zu letovah – this too is for the good, even if we don’t always understand things and things don’t always turn out the way we want them to.

The fact that Yosef came through all his trials with his faith intact is seen very clearly when he reveals himself to his brothers and they are broken about what they had done to him, and he says to them, don’t worry, you intended for the bad, but G-d intended for the good; He sent me here to save this whole region from famine. We see that Yosef eventually figured out why everything had to happen. He understood why he had to go through all this pain and suffering – to save everyone from the famine. And again, after their father’s death, the brothers worried that Yosef would bear a grudge against them and Yosef says don’t worry, I can see G-d’s hand in this. Yosef knew all along that G-d is in control. And that is why he said to them pakod yifkod “G-d will remember you one day.” He was so confident that G-d would redeem them that he said don’t worry about burying me in Israel, I know I will get there eventually because G-d will redeem you from Egypt, and when he does, take my body with you. Yosef’s life exemplified faith and trust in G-d.

G-d’s master plan

The remarkable irony is this: Yosef thought he understood G-d’s plan, but he actually didn’t. The Gemara explains that Yosef was buried in Shechem, the very place where he waskidnapped and sold by his brothers; he was taken from Shechem and he was buried in Shechem, showing the completion of G-d’s plan, spanning a few hundred years. Yosef thought he understood G-d’s plan, but G-d’s plans don’t always work out in a matter of a few years. They can sometimes take decades and even centuries and longer. He thought G-d had sent him to Egypt because there was going to be a famine and he had to save the whole region from starvation. But in fact, G-d brought the famine so that Yaakov and his whole family would come down to Egypt. G-d wanted the whole family in Egypt so that we, as a people, would be born into the slavery of Egypt and then be liberated by G-d and witness the ten plagues and the splitting of the sea; He wanted us to be created as a nation through our freedom given by Him with miracles. For that to happen, we had to be in Egypt and so G-d brought a famine. Yosef thought he understood that he was there to save them from the famine, but actually the famine was there to get them all down to Egypt, then to Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, and eventually to the Promised Land. Thus G-d’s plan began and ended in Shechem; when they eventually re-enter the Land of Israel and Yosef is buried in Shechem, the circle is complete.

G-d’s plan works on a much larger scale than we can even begin to imagine. That’s why our trust and faith in G-d is often tested – we see only a fraction of the picture, a blurred glimpse. G-d sees the full picture. To us, it’s like looking at the back of a tapestry – it’s a knotty mess. But when viewed from the front, the beautiful picture can be seen. The message of Yosef’s coffin travelling with the people was to say, remember, here was a man who lived with trust and faith in G-d even through terrible suffering. His life represents Hashem’s incredible plan, that G-d is watching everything, even though His plan is sometimes brought to fruition not in a matter of weeks or months or even years, but decades and centuries and sometimes even longer.

The people travelling in the desert – ordinary people, flesh and blood – made all kinds of human mistakes and had many failures. And yet the Torah was given to them. G-d gave us the Torah knowing that we are mortals, because he wants us to live up to the greatest ideals. He wanted the people in that generation to live up to those ideals and the life story of Yosef is what inspired them to do so. Yosef showed that it can be done, that one can live a life of mitzvos and do the right thing and fulfil G-d’s will despite the circumstances. He showed what it means to have real trust and faith in Hashem, even when things don’t turn out the way we want. His life showed that there is a broader picture, a grander scale of history, that G-d is watching every detail and that He loves us and cares about us.

Let that be our inspiration to make the lofty ideals of the Torah a real part of our day-to-day lives.

Parshat Bo – As broadcast on Chai FM

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Some of the most important blessings that we enjoy in life we take for granted. For example, breathing. The Gemara actually says that we should give thanks to Hashem for every breath – al kol neshima veneshima. Seeing somebody on a ventilator, G-d forbid, makes us realise what a blessing breathing is. But generally, we take breathing for granted. We don’t even think about it, we do it subconsciously.   

One of the blessings which G-d has given us and which we take for granted is freedom itself. When we talk about freedom, we are not talking about freedom in the political sense but rather freedom of choice, namely, that G-d has given every single human being the freedom to choose between right and wrong, good and evil. We have the freedom to make decisions and affect our lives.

Our parsha, Bo, opens with G-d saying to Moshe Bo el par’oh ki ani hichbadeti et libo ve’et lev avadav lema’an shiti ototai eileh bekirbo, “come to Pharaoh for I have hardened his heart and the heart of his servants in order that I may place My signs in their midst.” Here, as well as in last week’s parsha, we find a clear reference to the fact that G-d took away Pharaoh’s free choice by “hardening his heart.” At the beginning, when Moshe comes to Pharaoh and says let the people go, Pharaoh refuses. Then come the first five plagues, one after the other. With each plague, Pharaoh says alright, I will let them go, and as soon as the plague is taken away he changes his mind.

Initially Pharaoh was operating completely out of free choice. But at a certain point G-d takes away Pharaoh’s free choice, where he can longer choose to let the people go. This poses a moral question: how could G-d take away his free choice? Free choice is one of the fundamental pillars of the Torah; how could G-d take it away?

Forfeiting the right of free choice

Our sages offer many different approaches to this question. In chapter six of his Laws of Repentance, the Rambam, Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, known as Maimonides, explains why G-d took away Pharaoh’s free choice. He says that although every single person has free choice, there are some really evil people who, after they have chosen to do evil and have done a lot of damage, lose their free choice as a punishment. The punishment is that they can no longer repent. Together with the gift of free choice, repentance is one of the most incredible gifts that G-d has given every single one of us; it allows us to change the past. A person who embarks on the process of repentance with sincerity – including regretting the past, resolving not to do it again, desisting from doing it, and confessing our sins before G-d – can actually rewrite the past. But for people as evil as Pharaoh – who murdered newborn baby boys, ordering them thrown into the River Nile, who enslaved an entire nation, who acted with great chutzpah and treachery towards G-d and Moses – there comes a certain point where G-d says, if I let you repent now there is something unfair about it. It would be unjust to let Pharaoh wake up one day and repent and then be forgiven for all of his past sins. He can’t be given the way out. So G-d says, I am going to block the way from here on. He actually took away Pharaoh’s right to free choice so that when he would eventually die he would have to face full judgment before the Heavenly Court for all his evil actions.

Pharaoh is actually the exception which proves the rule, which is that every single person has free choice; Pharaoh simply lost it because he was so evil. But the Rambam raises another question: if G-d took away Pharaoh’s free choice, why does He send Moshe on a pointless mission? Why not just send the remaining plagues and free the Jewish people without having to put Moshe through this up-and-down with Pharaoh, when he knew Pharaoh’s answer would be no?

The Rambam says G-d wanted to show the world that when He takes away a person’s free choice there is nothing they can do to get it back; it’s gone forever.

That’s what happened with Pharaoh. And G-d wanted the whole world to know that Pharaoh’s free choice was taken away and that there was nothing Pharaoh could do to get it back. G-d wants us to know this, and it’s very important for our day-to-day lives: from the fact that G-d takes away free choice, we can learn free choice is a gift and not something we should take for granted. When we realise that it is something which can be taken away, we begin to appreciate it, in the same way that seeing someone on a ventilator makes us appreciate that breathing is a gift. When we look at what happened to Pharaoh, how he behaved so irrationally that he lost his freedom of choice, we realise that we dare not take free will for granted; we must appreciate it, for it is a gift and we need to understand how valuable it is.

Living with free choice

How do we appreciate freedom? The key to understanding this is actually the key to understanding how Judaism operates. On the one hand, Judaism is a philosophy, an ideology, an incredible intellectual system; on the other hand Judaism is a living wisdom, not merely wisdom which stays in the books and the ivory tower; we have to live according to it in our day-to-day lives, where it becomes part of who we are. For example, let us look at the fundamental principle of belief in G-d. There is an interesting question which is raised by one of the great rabbinic thinkers of the 20^th century, Rabbi Yosef Dov Soloveitchik. He says that when the Rambam discusses belief in Hashem in his Sefer HaMitzvot, the book in which he catalogues the 613 commandments, the Rambam defines the mitzvah to believe in G-d as a mitzvah leha’amin, a mitzvah “to believe” that there is a G-d. But when the Rambam discusses belief in Hashem in his Laws of the Foundation Principles of the Torah, he says it is a mitzvah ley’dah, a mitzvah “to know” that there is a G-d. What is the difference between the two?

Rav Soloveitchik explains that “to believe” is a philosophical, ideological, intellectual belief; “to know” is to live with it, to live by it, to incorporate it into our lives. Belief in G-d is a philosophical principle, but it is also a real-life, emotional, spiritual principle that we live with every single day. When we see a magnificent sunset, we can feel the artistic genius and mastery of G-d in creating a beautiful world. Rav Soloveitchik gives the example from Rabbeinu Bechayay, who says that when we look at the love between a mother and a child and we see how powerful that love is, we can feel G-d’s presence and can see His hand in everything. Belief in G-d is not something which is stuck in the books of philosophy, it is about feeling and seeing His presence in everything we do.

Rav Soloveitchik says this is the same regarding the principle of free choice. On the one hand we have the philosophical belief of free choice; on the other hand we need to make it part of our day-to-day lives so that we appreciate it not only on an intellectual level but on an emotional and spiritual level as well. On a philosophical level, we can understand free choice: the Rambam explains in chapter 5 of the Laws of Repentance that G-d has given us mitzvot to do – there is good, there is bad this is what we should do, this is what we shouldn’t – and that the whole Torah only makes sense if we believe in free choice. Secondly, he says the defining quality of a human being – namely, what differentiates us from all other creatures that G-d created – is the freedom of choice. Animals can choose but only within a very limited range. They cannot override their instincts and they do not make moral decisions. A lion can choose to hunt the impala in this way or that, but he does not think about the pain he is inflicting on the impala nor does he try to find another food source, because that is not within its frame of reference. A lion is pre-programmed, human beings are not; we have free choice and we have the ability to override instinct, do the right thing, make moral choices, and choose between good and evil.

That is on a philosophical level. But on an emotional level, we need to live with free will in our day-to-day-lives, to live with the knowledge that G-d made us free, we make decisions and with those decisions come responsibilities. It is easy to deny free choice, to blame our DNA, our upbringing and all kinds of circumstances we use to excuse the decisions we make. But although we are influenced by all of these factors, ultimately we have free choice in every decision that we make.

Believing in free will means acknowledging that we have the ability to change

When the Rambam codified Torah law, he pulled the laws together from all of the discussions in the Talmud. The Talmud, as we know, is structured in a way that reads like a verbal debate; it is a record of all the debates and the oral tradition that was received from G-d on Mount Sinai. It flows freely like a conversation, moving from one subject to another. Therefore, for example, one can have a discussion of the laws of tzitzit in a few different places in the Talmud. One of the important questions to ask whenever we study the Rambam is under which category did he choose to place a particular discussion. Regarding our discussion, it is interesting to note that the Rambam chose to deal with the principles of free choice not in his Laws of Foundation Principles of the Torah where he deals with belief in G-d and all of the other philosophical principles, but rather in the Laws of Repentance. Why?

Perhaps the reason the Rambam deals with the principles of free will in the Laws of Repentance is because repentance is about change, and we can only change if we believe we have the power to change. Conventional wisdom says a leopard doesn’t change his spots; this is who I am, I cannot change.  But to really believe in freedom means that we can look at our lives and say, we need to change, we need to improve, we need to do better – and we can. We need to do more mitzvot, find another path, and we can only do that if we really believe in freedom – not as an abstract, philosophical principle alone, but as something that we live with on an emotional and spiritual level every single day of our lives.

Parshat Va’eira

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Picture the scene: the cavalries of two armies charging towards one another, with long spears and swords they charge at each other on horseback. Think about it: what’s in it for the horse? Why is he charging ahead? The horse on his right is charging and so is the one on his left; so he charges on. Everybody is charging toward destruction. The riders have made a conscious decision to fight in the army, but why are the horses doing this?

In Jeremiah chapter 8 verse 6, the prophet Jeremiah describes how sometimes people live life like horses in a cavalry charge, going through the motions and doing what they think they have to because everybody around them is doing the same thing. We are just charging on, not really thinking. To use a modern-day example, it is like horses in a race. The rider – so he hopes – is getting fame and fortune, but what does the horse gain? He is just charging ahead, with his  blinkers on.

Many of us live life charging forward without thinking. How do we avoid this?

Stopping to think

The Mesilat Yesharim, one of our classic philosophical – and practical – works written by Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, known as the Ramchal, of Italy in the 1700s, quotes this passage from the prophet Jeremiah and says the only way out is to stop and think. We need to stop for a moment and think about where we are headed, what life is about and what our purpose is. 

In last week’s parsha, Shemot, we read about the enslavement of the Jewish people and how Moses arrives on the scene to begin the process of redemption. This week’s parsha, Va’eria, continues with the events of the Exodus, though the people are still very much enslaved. We read at the end of last week’s parsha about how the people initially welcomed Moshe with open arms; but after Moshe’s first encounter with Pharaoh, Pharaoh responded by making things worse for the people. He said (Shemot 5:9) Tichbad ha’avoda at ha’anashim…ve’al yish’u bedivrey sheker, “make the work harder for them and let them not turn to false ideas.” Pharaoh saw the people were starting to feel a sense freedom and he was worried about it, so his tactic was to make them too busy to think.

The Mesilat Yesharim says Pharaoh knew that the way to prevent the people from thinking about freedom and the important things in life was to make them so busy they could not pause to think. And that, says the Mesilat Yesharim, is really when the yetzer hara – the evil inclination – thrives, when we are so busy we can’t even stop to think. We become enslaved to the wrong path in life; we can’t even get our priorities straight and we can’t even lift our heads up to see the bigger picture. Thus, we live life like the horses in the cavalry charge.  

Pharaoh’s strategy worked: we read at the beginning of this week’s portion that by this stage, after Pharaoh had made the work harder for them, Velo sham’u el Moshe mikotzer ruach ume’avoda kasha, “they did not listen to Moshe because of shortness of spirit and because of hard work.” Their spirits were low, they couldn’t see the big picture anymore because things were too hard and they couldn’t stop to think. It wasn’t just the hard work because the work was difficult even before Moshe had come. But when Moses first arrived they still had some breathing space and that meant they could welcome Moses and his message of redemption. Now, they could no longer do it because they couldn’t even stop to think.

Finding the space to foster our faith

The lesson that Rabbi Luzzatto gleans from this is that the only way to real freedom from the enslavement of our day-to-day lives is to be able to have the time to stop and to think. Stopping to think is not just about stopping and thinking but about doing something positive. It’s about finding faith and making a connection to Hashem, despite the difficulties and challenges that we may be facing; to be able to say, I believe in Hashem and I will find my inspiration in Him. That is the beginning of the process of stepping out of the cavalry charge and seeing the broader picture.

Let us look at what Pharaoh was trying to stop them from doing, and then learn from that what we can do to make that positive connection with Hashem. Pharaoh said ve’al yish’u bedivrey sheker “let them not turn to false ideas.” Various commentaries explain that bedivrey sheker means “words of emptiness.” To what does this refer?

According to the Midrash, the people at that time had inspiring writings that they used to read on Shabbos. Of course, Shabbos had not yet been given to them as a mitzvah but they did have off on Shabbos – that is, until Pharaoh increased their workload to the point where they could not rest – and they used to read inspiring writings. Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky, one of the great rabbinic thinkers of the 20^th century, opines that this inspirational reading was from Psalms. We know that the Psalms were authored by King David, except for eleven chapters which, according to the Gemara, were authored by Moses – from psalm 90 through psalm 101. Every Shabbos we say psalm 92 in the davening – Mizmor shir leyom haShabbat, the psalm for the day of Shabbos. But if we look through that psalm we find no reference to Shabbos. The introductory words say, “this is the psalm for the day of Shabbos” but the rest of the psalm doesn’t actually talk about Shabbos. It talks about the problem of the flourishing of the wicked and the suffering of the righteous. It says, don’t be disturbed by the flourishing of the wicked, because they flourish like grass which comes and goes quickly. But the righteous are like the cedar trees; they take a long time to flourish but they are there forever – not only in this world, but in the next world as well.

We have to look at things with a long-term perspective. If we were to plant two seeds in the ground, a grass seed and a cedar tree, the grass would start growing much quicker. So too the wicked sometimes flourish and the righteous person takes a long time to thrive; but we have to look at the full perspective, not only of this world but of the next world as well.

Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky says that it was during this time, when the people were enslaved and suffering in Egypt and were looking to Moshe for inspiration, that he penned the words of this psalm to uplift their spirits. 

Taking time out for prayer

This relates to prayer as well. According to the Ba’al HaTurim, one of our great commentators from the Middle Ages whose specialty in his commentary on Chumash is finding where else in Tanach we find the same words or expressions, says this word yish’u in Pharaoh’s words ve’al yish’u bedivrey sheker, “let them not turn to false ideas,” appears only in one other place in the whole of Tanach and in that context (Shmuel II 22:42) it is talking about the people praying to G-d and not getting answered. The Ba’al HaTurim connects the two contexts where this word yish’u appears and says this is to teach us that when one prays to G-d one has to be honest. The key to prayer is that it must come from the heart; it has to be sincere, not just going through the motions and the externalities – having a Siddur open in front of us though our mind is in many different places. It means having a spiritual and emotional connection to Hashem.

Of course, we pray to G-d and sometimes he grants our request and sometimes He does not. He hears our prayers even though things may not turn out the way we would like, just as parents sometimes do not give a child what the child asks for because it isn’t good for the child. Even though the request was no granted, the child is still secure in the knowledge that there is a loving parent who is listening and taking note of the request. Real prayer should have the power to uplift and transform us, to give us a chance to see life from a different perspective, outside the cavalry charge. We pray three times a day, Shacharis, Mincha and Maariv; at each stage in the day we have the opportunity to step out of life and connect with Hashem. This is why, when we step into the Amidah prayer, we take three steps back and then three steps forward: symbolically, we are taking three steps back out of our lives, and then three steps forward into the presence of Hashem. These moments give us the opportunity to have the clarity, peace and tranquility that come with knowing that G-d is in charge and no matter what happens in the end, He is a loving father and we can connect with Him. Prayer thus gives us a broader perspective.     

Taking time out for Torah learning

The third aspect of yish’u is Torah learning. The Midrash connects the word yish’u in the verse discussed above with the word sha’ashu’im found in the verse in psalm 119, where King David writes luley toratcha sha’ashu’ai az avadeti b’onyi, “were it not for Your Torah which is my delight, I would have been lost in my affliction.” As we know, King David had a very hard life. He had many enemies – King Saul who didn’t want him to take over the kingship, his son Absalom who rebelled against him; he suffered family tragedies as well. King David is saying in this verse that what got him through the challenges and difficulties, what gave him a sense of perspective, joy and inspiration, was learning Torah. That, too, enables us to take a step back. Each person on his or her level can find something to learn, to get out of that cavalry charge of life and see the broader perspective and get a sense of inner peace and tranquility. In prayer we talk to Hashem; when we learn Torah, He talks to us.

Pharaoh was saying, I do not want them praying or learning. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsh comments that Pharaoh said they must not turn to “words of emptiness,” because Pharaoh is coming from an anti-Torah, anti-Hashem position. Pharaoh was saying, this is nothing, this is empty and therefore do not let them turn to such nonsense. But we know that prayer and Torah study are real and can uplift and transform our lives.

G-d gave the Torah for all times and it is indeed relevant in all generations. But in today’s day and age especially, the Torah and its message seem even more relevant. The way that people are rushed and pressured, the cavalry charge is all the more apparent. The Torah provides the formula to enable us to step back from life and see a much bigger picture.

Through faith, prayer and learning Torah we can see things from a much broader perspective.  We can step out of the rush of life and get a sense of inner tranquility. More importantly, we can ensure that we are on the right path, that we are not just charging aimlessly but are actually leading a life of purpose, according to G-d’s will.

In an ethical will to his children, Rabbi Pinchas, known as the Maggid of Polachak, one of the eminent Torah sages of the last few hundred years and a disciple of the famed Vilna Gaon, warned about false piety. The example that he gives is from the Book of Esther, when King Achashverosh hosted a grand banquet to celebrate the defeat of the Jewish People, the destruction of the First Temple and the fact that it had not been rebuilt. At the banquet, King Achashverosh used the holy utensils of the First Temple, which he had received from his wife’s grandfather, King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon who had destroyed the Temple. He also wore the clothing of the high priest.

The Maggid of Polachak says that a person who appears religious and pious on the outside but does not act so on the inside is like King Achashverosh wearing the clothing of the high priest. King Achashverosh was an enemy of the Jewish people and wearing the garments of the high priest certainly did not make him the high priest. So too, says the Maggid of Polachak, a person who presents an outer image of religious faith and commitment yet does not live by those values causes enormous damage. People who dress as religious Jews yet defy the halacha’s standards of interpersonal, ethical behaviour by assaulting, verbally abusing or degrading other people, or causing grievous emotional pain through the disgraceful misuse of Holocaust symbolism, are like Achashverosh dressing up in the clothes of the high priest.

A modern-day analogy: if a band of robbers were to dress up as policemen and rob a bank, would you say that the bank had been robbed by the police? Obviously not; the bank has been robbed by criminals dressed up as policemen. People who violate halacha, which prohibits any form of verbal abuse or conduct which causes another person pain, are merely dressing the part of being religious. To call such people “religious extremists” would be like calling bank robbers “capitalist extremists” because they are trying to make money through extreme methods. They are not religions extremists; they are criminal vigilantes, because they do not operate under the auspices or instructions of any recognised rabbinic authority.

 Torah Judaism is comprised of two categories of mitzvot: bein adam laMakom – our responsibilities toward Hashem – and bein adam lachaveiro – our responsibilities toward our fellow man. Torah Judaism cannot be compartmentalised. The Telzer Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Mordechai Katz, was once asked how he explains a religious person who lies and cheats in business.  He responded, “How do you explain a religious person who eats on Yom Kippur?” The questioner responded that such a person is not religious. Rav Katz said that neither is the one who is dishonest. A person who verbally or emotionally abuses or degrades another person cannot be called religious. The severity of the sin of publically humiliating someone can be seen in the Gemara’s ( Bava Metzia 58b) likening it to murder.

The perpetrators of these criminal deeds bear responsibility for their actions; the rest of society is responsible for the reaction to these events, which, tragically, have been allowed to poison the atmosphere and the relationships within the Jewish world, sparking a wildfire of dispute, suspicion and hatred in Jewish society, particularly in Israel. The divisive rhetoric following these events has caused enormous damage to the fabric of Israeli society, pitting religious and secular – as well as different religious communities – against each other.

These recent events merely reignited old divisions and animosities. It is these divisions and the accompanying aggressive and hateful words which we need to remedy with kindness, respect and derech eretz. All Jewish communities – however ideologically diverse, religious or secular – need to reach out to each other in friendship. This is not a utopian dream. It has, as one example, been achieved to a large degree in the South African Jewish community, where, generally, Jews from across the spectrum, engage with each other with respect and even friendship, albeit with all the natural human weaknesses and imperfections.

One of the great rabbinic leaders of the 20^th century, Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, known as the Chafetz Chaim, cried out about dispute and dissention – machloket – in many public letters and in his books. He writes that machloket, together with its ancillary sins of lashon hara, verbal abuse, and the like, causes death, destruction and disintegration. He cites many Talmudic sources that show that the fire of machloket destroys marriages and families, synagogues and communities, and, ultimately, it destroys the whole of society. The Chafetz Chaim cites the Talmud which says that G-d will forgive the treachery of idol worship more easily than the sin of machloket. The classic example of this is when G-d forgave the Jewish people for the sin of the Golden Calf but did not forgive those who were involved in igniting the fires of machloket in the sin of Korach’s dispute; they were destroyed entirely.

The Jewish People are facing many challenges and threats at this time. It is a time to return to Hashem sincerely, and the first step toward this teshuva is to improve our relationships, to speak to one another with kindness and gentleness and open our hearts to each other. As the Chafetz Chaim wrote in one of his letters addressed to the public, he was “very distressed that even in our Holy Land the deeds of the evil inclination have been successful and it too has fallen into the trap of machloket.” He concludes his letter with a heartfelt plea:

“and therefore, my brothers and friends, have mercy on yourselves and Klal Yisrael, and let everyone in his place extinguish the fire of machloket so that His great Name should not be desecrated anymore and in this merit we will merit to hear the voice announcing peace in the world.”

The Chafetz Chaim’s metaphor of fire is poignant: when a dispute rages, it consumes everything in its path; its destructive consequences cannot be predicted, as the Chafetz Chaim writes in that letter: “who knows what can come from this? May G-d have mercy!”

At the conclusion of this letter, the Chafetz Chaim signed his name, “who writes with a broken heart.” How broken hearted would he be were he to see what is going on today. And what of G-d Himself? One great Jewish commonwealth was destroyed, says the Talmud (Yoma 9b), because of the sins of hatred, lashon hara and machloket. We dare not let that happen again.

We cannot allow the fires of machloket, of these long-standing divisions and animosities, to continue burning. We need to find a better way for the future, a way of talking to each other - especially when we disagree - with kindness and respect, with simple derech eretz. From all sides of the divide we must bring to the public discourse the values presented in the verse (Mishlei 3:17) which describes the quintessential character of the Torah: “her ways are ways of pleasantness and her paths are those of peace.”

Parshat Shemot – As broadcast on Chai FM

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This week’s parsha is Shemot, the first parsha of the book of Exodus, which as we know deals, among other things, with one of the major events of Jewish history: the liberation from Egypt. The central character in the story of the Exodus is Moshe, the greatest leader the Jewish people ever had. This week’s parsha deals with the earlier years of Moshe’s life, beginning in Pharaoh’s palace and leading up to his role as the leader of the Jewish people.

 Moshe’s life: increasing responsibility

If we track the life story of Moses, we will see an interesting pattern. He starts off as a prince in the palace. Our portion describes how he goes out of the palace and sees the suffering of his brothers. He goes out further and sees an Egyptian taskmaster beating a Jewish slave and he intervenes to save the slave. He then separates between two Jews who are fighting with each other. After that he is forced to flee from Egypt and goes to Median, where he defends a group of shepherdesses from shepherds who bully them at the well. These shepherdesses turn out to be the daughters of Yitro, Jethro. He marries Tziporah, one of Yitro’s daughters, and they have two children. He is then appointed by G-d to lead the people out of Egypt and is the instrument through which G-d brings about the liberation. He then becomes their leader and teacher for the next forty years.

The pattern in Moshe’s life is one of increasing responsibilities. He starts off as a prince, with no responsibilities. A prince is different from a king; a king has privileges but responsibilities as well – he has to govern the country. But a prince has only privileges and no responsibilities. Then he goes out, sees his brothers’ suffering and takes on responsibilities: he helps one person, then another. He helps the daughters of Yitro, then he gets married, then he has children. He then comes back to fight and lobby on behalf of the Jewish people to get them out of Egypt. Then he serves as the conduit through which G-d gives the Torah to the Jewish people and he becomes the teacher – Moshe Rabbeinu – and he leads the people in the desert. He goes through all of these different phases but the common thread is a progression from very limited responsibility to greater responsibility, with each stage in his life.

Greatness of soul necessitates an expansion of self

This pattern of increasing responsibility is a process we must all go through. Rav Shlomo Wolbe, one of the great Rabbinic thinkers of the 20^th century, discusses what it means to be a great person.  Conventional wisdom maintains that the many important duties in life such as building a family, looking after a spouse, raising children, earning a living, and contributing to the community, are all noble tasks, no doubt, but also deplete a person’s resources. Of course a person has to develop him or herself as a human being and become a good person, through the commandments – our moral obligations – and through doing our duty in this word; but, says, conventional wisdom, every extra responsibility that we take on actually drains our resources.  Thus, we are constantly in a struggle between self-preservation and taking responsibility for others.  

Rav Wolbe says that this conventional wisdom is in fact not true. G-d places a soul in every person for the purpose of developing that soul. The soul, and the human being as the bearer of that soul, has tremendous potential which is actualised throughout a person’s life by doing good in the world, with the goal being that after death the soul returns to G-d in a state of maximum actualisation of the potential that was placed within it. A soul that remains up in the heavens with G-d cannot actualise its potential; it is in a place of perfection, of pure goodness. That is why the soul descends into the physical world, so that it has the opportunity to develop itself.

Actualising our potential by expanding our sphere of influence  

The potential inherent in the soul is actualised by taking on more and more responsibilities. As we grow up, our sphere of responsibility expands bit by bit. A baby is conscious only of its own needs: what and when it wants to eat, when it wants to sleep. A baby is not interested in anybody else. As we mature, we start to understand that there are other people in the world. A three- or four-year-old can already begin to comprehend that there are other people and other needs in the world, but still has a selfish streak. If they need something, they need it now and there is no negotiating. Thinking of others doesn’t come naturally to a child. As a child gets older, though, the process of moving from childhood to adulthood is a process of expanding, of becoming a bigger person.

Shouldering another’s burden

This development of the human being by taking on more and more responsibilities was exhibited by Moses. As part of his development he first needed to see the suffering of others. The Talmud cites the famous Mishnah in Pirkei Avot, Ethics of the Fathers (6: 6), which says you have to be nosei b’ol im chaveiro, you must carry your friend’s burden. The meaning is not just to help another person, but to shoulder the other’s burden and actually carry it with him. The message that needs to be conveyed to a person who is in a difficult situation is that he is not alone. It’s not just a matter of physically helping others – which of course is very important – but rather that they feel they are not alone, that you are with them.  

We can only truly be with the other if we can get outside of ourselves and be aware of the people around us. This is the process of maturing from a self-absorbed child to an adult who is aware of others. And this is the process Moses went through: going out and seeing his brothers’ suffering, helping his brothers, defending the defenceless against oppression, getting married, having children, and coming back to redeem the Jewish people.

Spiritual growing pains

Each stage of development, of expanding responsibilities and becoming more of an inclusive person – a klal mentsch, as we say in Yiddish – comes with pain because the soul is growing and stretching. When the soul comes into the world it is relatively limited, it is contracted; it is filled with potential which hasn’t yet been actualised. The soul has to expand so that the person becomes more inclusive of others. That is why every stage comes with growing pains, because the soul is expanding all the time to include more and more people.  

Marriage is about constant expansion of responsibility, thereby actualising the potential within and developing it even further. Marriage requires us to take into account another human being and a whole different set of needs. This is an expansion of soul, an actualisation of potential. 

Similarly with raising children – every parent knows the self-sacrifice that is required in order to raise a child properly, as well as the great rewards that come with it. The pain of self-sacrifice is really about the expansion of self to include the child who is now in the parents’ realm of influence. A person goes on a lifelong journey of expansion and fulfilling more and more of their potential, from marriage to children to community, to helping the underprivileged.

Thus, expanding responsibility is not about diminishing the individual. It is about fulfilment in the actualisation of the soul’s potential. It was for this purpose that we were brought into the world. This is the life process that Moses goes through: constant expansion of self. He starts off as a prince who only has to worry about himself, living a life of privilege with everyone looking after him. Then his responsibilities expand and he starts to look at the suffering of his brothers. He is nosei b’ol im chaveiro, as the Talmud describes; he shouldered the burden of his brothers, literally and figuratively. Then he gets married and has children, and then he comes back to get the people out of Egypt. He leads the people, teaches them Torah, looks after them in the desert, constantly expanding his responsibilities. This is the making of a great person.

The ultimate expansion of consciousness: the soul returning to G-d

The final stage of growth, says Rav Wolbe, is actually death -a very painful process indeed. Even if a person passes away peacefully and after many years, his or her transition to the next world is painful; the transition from a world of constriction to a world of expansion is the ultimate growth. 

Rav Wolbe quotes from Rabbeinu Tam, one of our great philosophers from the Middle Ages, who contrasts this world with the next and says that a person living in this world is like someone living in a cave underground who has all his needs taken care of but does not know that there is a world outside the cave. Then one day he comes out and sees a whole big world of blue skies, seas, and trees. The magnificence and the sheer freedom of being in the “real” world, the expanded consciousness that comes with it, is something which could never have been conceived of inside the dark cave. 

Rabbeinu Tam says that this world is like a dark, constricted cave. When we make the transition out of the body the soul becomes even more of a klal mentsch, even more inclusive; the soul has finished the process of actualising its potential. It now has a sense of transcendence above self, transcendence above the world, and an appreciation for the ultimate truth.

If a person has lived a good life, then death becomes part of that growth process. Any growth process of a person becoming more expanded is associated with growing pains of the soul being stretched into greater consciousness. Each stage of life becomes more difficult and that is associated with pain. One of the great achievements of life, says Rav Wolbe, is to die well. The pain of death is the ultimate growth process, where the soul has finished its development and is now going back to G-d. As it leaves the physical body it becomes the ultimate klal mentsch; it sees the broader perspective, having transcended beyond self.

Maturity means moving beyond self

Unfortunately, there are adults who behave like children because they haven’t matured beyond self. This process of development and maturing is not something which happens automatically; it is a process that we have to work on. Thus you may find people who get married – which should be an expanding experience – but because they haven’t developed properly and expanded as human beings, they remain selfish. This in turn damages the marriage, sometimes irreparably. Having children should be an expanding process. Sometimes it is and, sadly, sometimes it isn’t. At each stage of life we have to be constantly developing and expanding who we are, transcending beyond self and being aware of what is going on around us.

The more responsibility we take on and the more we reach out to those around us, the more we are developing the soul within us. As such there isn’t tension between “my” interests and “your” needs, between self and others. We expand and develop ourselves by getting involved with others and putting their needs before ours.

Growing inside, expanding outward

This is the model of Moses’ life: it starts constricted, turned inward, and then expands, turning outward. The impetus for that growth from the inside out comes from everything that G-d has given us – the Torah and the Talmud, which give us the guidance, the light and the energy to be able to expand outward. Our direct connection to G-d is the starting point, from which we can then move out to become greater and greater people.

This is the lesson gleaned from Moses’ life story. Greatness is the expansion of self, when we are filled inside with a direct connection to G-d and then expand outward to include others, increasing our responsibilities and becoming klal mentschen.

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